


Mia Colpa, Non Importa

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Friendship, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Riding Crop, S&M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have no idea where this came from.  We have a submissive John and a sadistic Sherlock and we have something that's not exactly a romantic relationship but does have John giving up romantic relationships in favor of it (in my headcanon) and we have a dynamic that may pop up in future work because I'm really curious about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mia Colpa, Non Importa

There are a number of other ways this could have gone, and John can see them laid out like a host of alternative routes on Sherlock's mental map of London, Sarah and Jeanette and Mary all detours over bridges and through tunnels, all leading somewhere other than  _this_.

Sherlock is oddly intent with the way he holds the crop, runs the tip over John's cheek and mouth, who-knows-what speeding along the superhighway of his mind behind deceptively blank eyes.  A lost year, a swing through depression and back out again, a cloudy minefield of rage and there is no reason whatsoever for John to be here except that Sherlock saw it and said "yes."  

"Yes," he says again, voice low and sure, and John starts back into the present with a quick blink, left shoe shifting on the dusty rug.  "I've got it.  Over the back of the sofa."

"Sherlock, I'm not..."

"John," Sherlock clips him off, hand under his chin, gentle at first then gripping.  John resists the urge to look away.  "Do exactly as I say," Sherlock adds smoothly, and then he lets go and John could analyze fifteen hundred little things about himself except that he's been doing that for years and instead his sweater comes off over his head with his t-shirt and he kneels on the sofa, bracing himself against its back, forehead against the wall.  It's too much at first and he doesn't sink into it as Sherlock works over his shoulders, in fact it's  _too_  real,  _too_  present, too much flashing through his mind and he's about to get the fuck up and stop all this when Sherlock drops the crop and stops the movement, a cool hand on his bare shoulder.

"John." 

"I don't... bugger it, Sherlock, this isn't..."

Sherlock cuts him off before he can finish the thought and tugs him back awkwardly, twists him, so that he's bent half-standing half-sitting when the tips of Sherlock's fingers connect with his cheek in a hard slap.  He blinks and stares.  "You..."

Again, forehand, backhand this time, Sherlock's hands on his shoulders tugging him up, into Sherlock's body.  "Stop.  Thinking," Sherlock orders, and that's rich, coming from him, but Sherlock turns him again and pulls him down too hard to his knees and twists his arms behind his back, holding them there, breathing warm into his ear.  "Stop." 

John puts his hands flat on the sofa's seat in front of him and Sherlock brings the crop down at an angle, fire bursting across his skin.   _Too hard_ _?_ It's a sane, rational question and so John doesn't bother answering it.  His desires have too few limits, and perhaps it's only that it's not sexual or even really romantic with Sherlock that lets him take this.  What kind of man would let his best friend wail on him for sadistic pleasure, Ella might ask, and John would say  _this man_ , because it's truer than anything else he's told her.  

 John loses time, loses everything slumped over his own sofa wondering in a half-hazy rhetorical way if he's bleeding.  Sherlock doesn't turn him at the end but puts him down on his back on that dusty rug and looms over him, hawkish, eyes flitting across his body to observe and re-analyze.  He'll do this again for the sake of experimentation or need or something else, and John doesn't quite care why.  Sherlock puts the tip of the crop to his lips again and he tastes leather, not blood, but he also exhales in a puff of relief and his eyes fall shut, and Sherlock's weight is heavy even distributed across his hips.  Time can go play silly buggers and leave him well enough alone.  He's content here.


End file.
